Beloved Enemy (33 page)

It took her about ten minutes to reach the garden at the ba
ck
of the Black Cock, and once there, Ginny stood still
in the darkness; having attained her initial goal, she was now
not
at all sure how to proceed. The tavern was a dark
shape, c
rou
ching like some malevolent beast in
the middle of an ov
e
rgrown garden where the dank smells
of damp earth, cess pit, and fermenting hops mingled noisomely. No light showed
from any of the glassless windows, but the innkeep
e
r’s wife had said Ginny would find whom she sought
between dusk and dawn, so presumably someone was awake
to
respond to a knock.

Suppose it was a trap, suppose this was nothing more t
h
an the den of thieves it appeared to be? Suppose those
at the inn had good reason to deliver an unwary, innocen
t
-see
m
ing young
woman into the hands of rapists . . .
m
urderers
. . . kidnappers? She was being utterly foolish. Sh
e
had absolutely nothing to offer anyone with evil
intent —except her body, a hollow voice reminded her. Ginny screwed her courage
to the sticking post and boldly approached the low building where a heavy door
was set into the stone wall. Her knock seemed to resound in the still night,
and she shrank instinctively against the wall. Nothing happened. There was no
sound from within. She stepped back and looked up at the windows. They were all
tiny and set well above ground level, presumably to permit some light while
providing only minimum access to inclement weather. She knocked again, more
loudly this time, and rattled the latch. The door latch moved under her hand,
and the door swun
g
inward onto a pitch-dark passageway.

Her heart seemed to lodge in her throat, her hands to quiver
with apprehension as she contemplated the unyielding blackness. Then the image
of Peter sprang before her eyes, Peter and those others who would now be dead
in Guildford barracks. Ginny stepped into the passage, but she could not bring
herself to close the door behind her, shutting her into the unknown dark.

"
Sykes,
is that you?" A quavery voice cut the silence; a door cracked open at the
end of the corridor, showing the faint gleam of candlelight.

"No ... no, it is
m
e,
"
Ginny whispered ridiculously through
her dry throat and parched lips.

"Who the devil?
"
Someone pushed past the owner of the quavery voice and came into the passage,
holding a candle high. "A maid!" He gave a short laugh. "Close
the door behind you, missy. We don't want any more uninvited visitors."

"I am come to speak with the red fox," Ginny said,
the words coming out in a panicky rush. "They told me at the Hand and
Shears that I might find him here between dusk and dawn."

"Come here, and let's get a good look at you"
another voice, more cultured than the last, ordered from behind the cand
l
e bearer.

Ginny closed the door behind her, then stepped forward,
s
ome of her fear dissipated by the knowledge that the
red fox was certainly familiar to these folk. She found herself in a s
m
all room that would be warm and snug in winter, but in
the
heat of summer and lit by tallow
candles was oppressive. T
he
re were four men, an ancient
presumably of the quavery voice, the large barrel-chested candle bearer, and a
slim f
ig
ure simply dressed but with the
bearing and manners of a nobleman, and the fourth sat by the hearth, twisting
the stem of a pewter goblet between his fingers, and whose long hair denoted
the Cavalier.

"
Who
seeks the red fox?" The man with the cultured voice asked, beckoning her
into the candlelight.

"I am Virginia Courtney, sir,
"
she said, deciding simplicity was
the best approach. "Daughter of John Redfern of the
Is
le of Wight, who died at Naseby."

"Have some wine, John Redfern's daughter
,
" the man by the hearth spoke for the first time,
st
r
etching over to a table, f
i
lling another goblet from the flagon. "I drank
with your father before his death. Let us drink to King Charles."

The speaker had already had more than enough, Ginny decided,
judging by the slurred voice and the rather glazed eyes, but she accepted the
goblet with a small automatic curtsy. "Can you direct me to the red fox,
sirs? I have two messages of vital importance."

"How do you come to Wimbledon?" the burly one
demanded, his eyes suspicious in spite of her introduction.

"
With
Parliament's army," she replied, hearing the sharp intake of breath.
"There is a brigade quartered in the village, as you must know. I travel
with them."

"Pray continue
,
"
the third speaker requested, his voice dry in the sudden silence. "I am
certain there is more to be explained."

Ginny told them briefly of her history and position as ward
of Parliament. "Traveling under Parliament's protection has enabled me to
pass on the king's message in several places," she finished. "But I
have a message of life and death to impart now. It is imperative that I speak
with the red fox without delay. Every moment wasted could bring death."

"How can we be sure that you do not play a double
game?" the drinker asked. The question was greeted with a rumble of
agreement from the burly one.

"I bear the king's seal," she said simply, drawing
the parchment from her pocket.

A reverent hush fell in the room, and it was the quality of
the quiet that finally reassured Ginny that she was amongst friends. Only the
king's most loyal subjects would react to his hand in such a manner. But there
was one last question for her. "How have you managed to evade Parliament's
guard to come here this night?"

"The colonel left on a patrol with most of his officers.
Those who remain at the inn do not know me very well." She smiled.
"They think that I am abed, and, indeed, I hope to be so before my absence
is discovered
.
"

"You will not then make your escape, having come this
far?"

"Where would I go?" Ginny asked with absolute
truth. "Besides, the colonel would leave no stone unturned to find me, and
who knows what else he might turn up in the search? I'll not be responsible for
reprisals, sirs."

They all nodded in matter-of-fact agreement. "So, this
message of life and death, mistress? You may give it safely to all in this room
and be assured it will reach the right ears."

Ginny told them of the events at Guildford, of her talk with
Peter, of his message that the blue band had been captured, and that by
nightfall it was likely that all the information they had had would be
possessed by their interrogators. The news was received in somber silence.

"I will send runners." The slim, cultured man spoke
at last. "If they leave immediately, they may be able to reach the others
before the Roundheads get to them." He turned to Ginny. "We owe you a
debt, mistress."

Ginny shook her head. "No, sir, no debt. I did my duty
as
you
will do yours, as . . .
"
Her voice faltered. "As Peter
As
h
ley has  done his."  The  man 
by  the hearth  crossed
hi
mself, murmured a
prayer. "Do you have news of one E
d
mund
Verney?" Ginny asked. "He is my cousin. Peter sa
id
he thought he had gone into Kent, but he did not know
if he was safe."

"He passed through here two days ago," the ancient
spoke, h
i
s voice firmer.
"
He was in good health and spirits, and
we h
i
ve not heard of his capture."

"Then the news is as good as I could have
expected," said Ginny, putting her goblet on the table. "I must try
to make my way back to the inn undetected, for your sakes as much
as
for mine. Is there anything further you would have me
do?"

"You go to London?" the drinker asked.

"
Yes,"
agreed Ginny.
"
After that, I do not know. Colonel
Marshall is hoping to march with Cromwell to Scotland, but I do not know what
plans will be made for me."

"There is nothing you can do in London; the city is all
for Parliament. Your task is done, I t
h
ink."

Ginny shrugged. "I will keep my eyes and ears open,
nevertheless, and see what opportunities arise. Should you, perchance, come up
with Edmund Verney, tell him that he is in my thoughts, and I pray for his
safety."

She left then, retracing her steps through the back gardens,
aided this time by a degree of familiarity and by the faintest lightening in
the sky, the lightening of the false dawn. She had been gone perhaps three
hours in all, and there were no indications of any disturbance in the village,
of any changes in the situation that she had left, as she slipped thankfully
through the garden gate of the Hand and Shears. The inn was still in darkness,
the window of her ground-floor chamber still open, just as she had left it.

Ginny hitched herself up onto the broad window sill, swung
her legs through into the dark room, jumped down just as a flint scraped on
tinder and the darkness lifted.

She spun round like a top toward the door. Alex sat in the
only chair in the room, leaning back negligently, his riding crop across his
knees, sword still at his waist, regarding her quizzically.

"Where have you been, my little rebel?"

Ginny thought faster than she had ever thought before. The
lie must approximate the truth if it was to convince him. There was no innocent
explanation she could come up with, like an urgent need for the outhouse in the
middle of the night, since she had no idea how long he had been back. But he
knew nothing of her role as messenger, and
there
was no reason why he should guess it. He would not, therefore, be able to ask
the right questions, and thus, he could not force the truth from her as he had
done that last time.

"I did not expect you back until morning," she
said, unfastening her cloak as if this meeting were the most ordinary
circumstance in the world.

Alex smiled. "That is rather obvious, my dear Ginny. We
came across those we sought rather more quickly than I had dared to expect. I
returned here in the hopes of snatching a couple of hours' sleep. A false hope
as it turned out. Where have you been?"

"In the village," replied Ginny with an assumption
of nonchalance.

Alex frowned and began to play with the thong of his riding
whip with a curious sort of deliberation. "Please go on," he
requested politely.

Ginny found her eyes riveting on the play of those long
fingers as they stroked the plaited leather on his knee. Unease crept up the
back of her neck, dispelling the moment of bravado. Did she really think he
could not — would not force the truth from her?

"I went in search of news of Edmund
,
" she told him. Alex nodded and waited, looking
at her while his hands continued their purposeful fiddling. Ginny swallowed.
"Peter told me . . ." She stopped, hoping to convince Alex by her
hesitation and obvious reluctance that Peter's information about Edmund had
been his most important communication.

"
What
did Peter tell you?
"
he prompted gently, tapping the crop
in the palm of his hand.

"
That
. . . that Edmund . . . Oh, what good will it do to tell you?" she
exclaimed with convincing desperation.
"
There
is nothing you can do wi
th
th
e
information."

"I will be the
ju
dge
of that," he replied. "Now, hurry up. I would like to get some sleep
this night." The leather made a soft, rhy
th
mic slapping noise against his hand.

Ginny bit her lip. "Are you intending to use that?"
she asked somewhat shakily, unable to bear the suspense a moment longer.

"This?" Alex said with almost credible
astonishment, staring at the whip on his lap. "On you? Good God, no.
Whatever could have given you that idea?"

"I cannot imagine," Ginny said, turning away from
him now that the deadly spell of that menacing little game had been broken.

"You should know by now that my methods are a little
more subtle
,
" he said softly. "Not that
it isn't a favorite instrument of torture
,
"
he added, as if imparting some fascinating piece of information. "In the
right hands, it can be most effective. If one does not break the skin, one can
prolong the agony indefinitely
—
"